


with half the tank and empty heart

by ssilverarrowss



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Driving, M/M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-04 00:41:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6634135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssilverarrowss/pseuds/ssilverarrowss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He glances at the odometer, taking in all the kilometres they’ve travelled, the distance melting beneath the car, somehow reminiscent of the distance between them, the spaces missing bodies leave in beds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with half the tank and empty heart

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt 'things you said while we were driving.' Title from 'Ocean Drive' by Duke Dumont.

It’s simple, really.

Lewis wants to drive, so they drive.

It’s an arbitrary request, almost capricious, but Nico doesn’t question it. He doesn’t fight it, either, so here they are—

In a faded white 1976 Porsche 911, driving down an endless stretch of asphalt, with the windows down, two lost souls on a balmy summer night. 

There’s a cigarette in Lewis’s mouth, a lighter in one hand, the other cupped around the cigarette. There’s a flicking sound and the interior of the car illuminates, _bright,_ as Lewis lights up, and the crackle of burning tobacco permeates the air. 

A slow breath, and Lewis inhales. Exhales curls of white smoke and memories of dead gone days. 

And Nico looks at him, just for an instant, then back at the road. Nico breathes too; involuntarily matches the pull of Lewis’s lungs to his own.

“I thought you didn’t smoke.” Nico says. 

Lewis makes a small noise in the back of his throat that sounds like recognition. 

He knows Nico never liked it, remembers how he claimed it marred the way he tasted. And, shit, everything’s become past tense suddenly. Things like they  _used to_ be close, they _used to be_  in love.

“I don’t.” He replies, taking another drag of the cigarette. 

Nico purses his lips and nods, doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It’s _Lewis,_ after all. 

“Right. Well. You shouldn’t smoke in the car. You’ll damage the upholstery.”

Lewis laughs around the cigarette, clipped and perfunctory.

“Maybe, yeah.” 

He tries _not_ to look at the curve of Nico’s shoulders under the fabric of his t-shirt, tongue poking out in concentration, the way his body moves as he drives, slender milky fingers palming the gear-stick, foot steadily pressing down on the gas. 

So he focuses on other things instead, the lights of the city moving over the dash and across his lap and dancing through the car and then out, leaving them enveloped in the darkness of the night. 

Lewis shifts in his seat, starts fiddling with the radio, absentmindedly flicking through the stations without really paying attention, not looking for anything in particular.

Nico leans his elbow on the window, drags a hand through his hair. Presses the back of his hand to one cheek, knuckles finding hot and clammy skin. He tries  _not_ to think about the pressure of Lewis’s hand against his skin, the way it felt to touch and be touched by Lewis. It was good, always, but not enough to make Lewis a permanent fixture: to make him _stay._

“Why did you call?” He asks eventually, voice cutting through the silence and the night, warm in a suffocating sort of way, and the thick smoke-filled air.

_Why now?_

Because Lewis feels like a ghost, drifting in and out of Nico’s life, always miles and hours apart. Missing for months, showing up one night with no explanation, with nothing but a simple  _“I’m outside.”_

Lewis’s shoulders shift in a shrug as he stubs the cigarette out and flicks the butt out the window. His eyes are trained on Nico as he drives, lights flooding his skin, something like technicolour. 

“I don’t know.” He replies, dipping his head, tongue flicking out to swipe at his lips.

Nico shakes his head, that characteristic gentle exasperation clinging to his features. 

“Forget it.” He says, and it sounds a little hollow. His teeth bite at the inside of his cheek.

“Shit, I really don’t know, yeah? Why _you._ Why after everything, I thought of you.” He sounds frustrated, picking at the skin around his thumb. 

“Lewis—”

It’s been months, but Lewis still loves the way his name sounds when it’s falling from Nico’s lips, painted with the hint of an accent. He briefly wonders if it tastes bitter in his mouth. He thinks he knows.

“I fucked up, I know. _I know._ ” He says, rubs a knuckle over his lower lip, knee bouncing as he twists the lighter between his fingers. The regret sits heavy in his chest, feels vast beneath his skin.

Nico doesn’t deny it.

He glances at Lewis, and he’s all cigarette smoke and ruefulness in the dark.

They fall silent again, the radio nothing but a background noise. 

This is what they are now: strangers living in these inhabited spaces. The ties that bind, and all of that.

“Do you miss it, sometimes? _Us._ ” Nico asks quietly, and it smacks of pillow talk. 

“I—yeah. Fuck. I guess.” Lewis says, exhaling, letting the words wash over him. He swallows around the lump in his throat, reaches out to place a palm over Nico’s hand on the steering wheel. 

Nico blinks, but keeps his eyes on the road.

He remembers _goodbye,_ remembers the fights burning deep into the night, remembers the cold sheets and the bitter sting of loneliness. A handful of memories not easily forgotten. 

There was a time when Nico would look at him, mouth open and eyes filled with pretty things like kindness and love. Lewis’s fingers would dance across the pale landscape of Nico’s skin, trace the curves of his backbone and draw his spine. Nico would kiss the valley of Lewis’s knuckles, whisper sweet nothings against the shell of his ear, and Lewis would shiver, desire licking up his skin like flames, spreading like wildfire. And Lewis’s fingers would catch the bedsheets, lips curving to say Nico’s name like he says his prayers, mouth full of devotion and conviction, a soft litany.

Words like worship, bodies like cathedrals. 

But that was then. Before.

He glances at the odometer, taking in all the kilometres they’ve travelled, the distance melting beneath the car, somehow reminiscent of the distance between them, the _spaces_ missing bodies leave in beds. And then there’s the numbing knowledge that he’s heavily responsible for this, throbbing in his temples like a headache. 

There are things Lewis wishes he could take back. Things he wishes he had done or said, little regrets that sting like bees. 

Lewis squeezes briefly, Nico’s skin warm and soft beneath his, then drops his hand. What’s done is done, and he’s got to live with it, he knows. 

 _I missed you,_ Lewis thinks, but doesn’t say. But the thing is, he does, even if they can never go back. 

 _I will make it up to you. Everything._ Lewis doesn’t say either, because he’s bad at making promises. Instead, he says—

He says:

“Thanks for driving.”

And Nico hums, a small smile tipping at the edges of his lips, because it’s simple, really.

Lewis wants to drive, so they do. They drive.


End file.
